


To Slake Your Thirst

by Barkour



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon - Manga, Canon Character of Color, F/M, Female Character of Color, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The oasis spread before them, a thing of unexpected beauty rising out of the desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Slake Your Thirst

The oasis spread before them, a thing of unexpected beauty rising out of the desert. A small settlement radiated out from the managed greenery, the pale stone of those low buildings mottled with sand and wear and bright with the heat of the sun. The first of the springs showed between the thick branches of the trees: a deep pool which gleamed blue out of the black.

Lanfan thought of stepping into that pool, first her toes, then her ankles, up to her knees and her hips, the water chill on her skin. She thought of striking out to where it was deepest and sinking down, down into the cool, dark depths; she thought of the harshness of the sun, the brightness of it, dim through the water.

Grandfather spoke with a man near the pool in the quick and rolling tongue of the desert people. He gestured to the pool, then to Ling, and the man considered both. At her feet, his back pressed to the plated trunk of a date palm which rose green above him, Ling breathed in slow, even, muted pants. His eyes were closed; his face shone, slick with sweat.

Lanfan drew her cloak tight across her shoulders. Beneath her bindings, sweat: thick between and beneath her breasts, her arms, along her thighs, in the hollows of her toes. The heat swallowed her, tighter than any cloak. She remained.

Grandfather returned, bearing a pail with a deep bowl. "They will allow us to refill our water stores here," he said to Ling, who opened his eyes at this. His pupils were dilated, his eyes black in the shade. "We may also bathe, though not in the spring." Grandfather gave the pail to Lanfan.

"I can carry that," said Ling. He held his hand out to her. His wrist flashed, sweat thick on the inside of his arm and bright.

Lanfan tucked the pail into the crook of her arm. "Do not trouble yourself with this, young master," she said. "Please remain here with Grandfather." She bowed once to Ling. Her hair, tightly wound, stuck to her nape.

Ling smiled up at her, his eyes dark beneath his bangs. "Thank you, Lanfan," he said to her.

She fled on silent feet to the spring. She knew enough not to blame the heat on her face or the stuttering of her heart on the sun alone or the weight of the desert on her shoulders. Lanfan rolled her lips back between her teeth. They were chapped, cracked from too little water and too much sand, and caked with salt from her sweat.

At the spring, she ran the pail through the water, which lapped up around the sides to lick at her fingers. Her palms sweated in her gloves, but the spring water on her knuckles cooled. Thin ripples trickled across the surface of the pool, then vanished near to where the pool grew so deep the water showed black, even beneath the sun.

Lanfan hoisted the pail and turned sharply on her heel; the earth crunched underfoot. She ran quickly, lightly, holding the pail steady that the water might not slosh out the mouth of it and spill across the ground: water young master might have drank or used to wash the salt from his skin.

Beneath the tree, Ling had stood. He shrugged out of his hood, then his jacket; the muscles high on his chest drew out, flattened and tensed, as he dragged the sword belt over his head. The sweat on his chest glimmered and the muscles thick in his belly fluttered. Lanfan turned her face away and thrust the pail out to him, harder perhaps than she ought to have done: water ran cool along the back of her wrist.

"Young master," she said, her eyes on the man who stood near the spring.

"Thank you, Lanfan," said Ling again. He took the pail from her, his fingers brushing hot and rough across hers. Ling crouched in the dirt with the pail set before him and cupping his hands, slid them into the water.

It was her duty to remain at his side, even as he splashed his face with water and pulled his hair back, his fingers carding through the sweat and the grime; even as he wetted his chest, his shoulders, the long, strong breadth of his back, and scrubbed at the dirt with his slicked hands. The desert had darkened him and the lines of his body were leaner now, the softening fat of youth gone from his ribs, his gut, leaving muscle, shifting beneath his skin as he washed his nape, and a new sharpness to his broad frame.

Ling dunked his face into the pail and held himself there, the muscles between his shoulders and at the base of his nape knitting together. He lifted his head, gasping, and laughed. Water dripped from his ear to his throat, where it slid down to rest in the notch of his collarbone. Ling wrung his hair out and slicked it back from his brow.

A terrible heat rolled through Lanfan; it hummed in her skin. Her head pounded. Fool, she thought at herself; idiot. She should have looked for Grandfather; she should have turned her back to Ling. Coward, she thought.

"Ah, Lanfan," Ling groaned. He worked at his neck, digging into the muscles there with water-bright fingers. "You've saved my life. I thought I would die for sure." He smiled up at her, over his arm.

Lanfan swallowed and held herself still. "Would you like for me to fetch you another pail?" she said.

"No, thank you," said Ling, "I'm well enough now." He dropped his arm. His hand slapped against his thigh. He peered up at her, a wisp of black hair twisting at his ear. "I think you should wash up," he said. "You're very flushed. I'd hate for one of my most talented vassals to die, and in such a place." His eyes crinkled; his smile teased.

Lanfan wished for a mask; she wished for Grandfather; she wished for cool, dark waters to close over her head.

She said, "Pluh—" and reddened further at the clumsiness of her tongue. Lanfan cleared her throat and said, "Please do not concern yourself with one as unworthy as I, young master."

"What sort of prince ignores the needs of his people?" said Ling. He smiled still.

She bowed her head, the hood falling dark before her eyes. Beneath the edge of it, she could see his hand on his thigh, his fingers flat, his wrist arched, the tendons there drawn tight. She swallowed again. Her throat scraped.

"It's only the sun," she said.


End file.
